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mU THE bflP WAS YOUHG. 



An Incident of the Revolution* 




Class _____£S6^ 

Book JZlSiSi 

Copyright W 



COPYRIGHT DEPOSrr 



WHEN THE LAND WAS YOUNG. 



AN INCIDENT OF THE REVOLUTION. 
IN ONE ACT. 



BY 

LUCIE TOUSEY BURKHAM 



Written for and presented before the Cincinnati Chapter D. A, R. 

Flag Day, igo8. 



Copyright, 1909, by I,ucib T. Burkbam. 






CHARACTERS IN THE PLAY. 



Madame Elizabeth Wadsworth, whose husband is fighting for 

his country. 
Betty Wadsworth, her daughter. 
Anstice Carr, sister to Madame Wadsworth. 
Mistress Bendall, of" Wildwood", a staunch Tory. 
Mary Paston, a distant relative and dependent of Mistress Bendall. 

Mistress Lois Lisle j 

Mistress Polly Lisle / Ladies of the neighborhood. 
MisTREvSS Anne Lisle ) 

Captain Richard Everett, of General Washington's army. 
The Peddler. 

PoMPEY, page to the Misses Lisle. 

Scene : The Grounds of Colonel Wadsworth's estate, " The 
Meadows," in Virginia. The Summer of 1777. 



iCi.D 1735y 



TMP92-008744 



The scene presented is the grounds of '^The Meadows,'' near 
the manor house. An entrance on the right leads to the house, on 
the left, to the garden. Slightly to the right of the center of the 
background is a garden bench on which lie battledores and a shuttle- 
cock. To the right oj the bench are two chairs and a table, in the 
immediate foregrou7id. To the left of the bench are fotir chairs, a 
spinning-wheel and towards the cetiter, a small table on which are 
a primer and other books, and a sampler in a working frame. En- 
ter from left Anstice Carr and Betty Wadsworth. The child has 
a basket of flo2vers on her arm and is lookiyig eagerly into Anstice' s 
face. 

Anstice. — And then the Good FairievS drove all the wicked 
Red Fairies with their horrid little tomahawks, into a great fearsome 
wood. There they shut them up with a big black beadle like old 
Uncle Cyrus to watch over them. Whenever they tried to escape, 
he would cry out to them ; " Go 'long, ole Massa Red Mens, yo' all 
caint never come out no mo'. 

Betty [clapping her hands^ . — Oh, I'm glad they shut them 
up! But what became of the Princess, Auntie? 

Anstice [sitting down to right of bench arid drawing the child 
to her]. — Oh, the Prince and the Princess went to dwell in a fair gar- 
den, where the Princess spun all day long on a wheel made of sweet 
sandal wood. When she was aweary of that, she wove coverlets of 
rose petals embroidered with dew-pearls. On every side of the gar- 
den stood an army of tall white lilies as spotless as her pure soul, 
and two kept guard at the gate, with blazing sun beams for swords. 
And the brave Prince loved her forever. There, does the ending 
suit my sweeting ? 

Betty. — And the Princess was just like you, wasn't she Auntie, 
and the Prince like Cousin Dick ? 

Anstice [impatiently] . — Nonsense ! 'Tis foolish to speak so j, 
child, fairies be nought like human folk [rising] . Come, I will play 
you at shuttles ; there they lie on yonder bench. [Betty brings shut- 
tles placing her basket on the bench. They play ; the sluittlecock falls.] 
Pick it up. Poor thing, it is like the dove of peace that flutters over 



When the Land was Young. 



our unhappy land but finds no place for her rest. It falls again ? 
Faith, 'tis but a fledgling. Send it on strong pinions, as though it 
were leaving all else behind and flying on to happiness and love. 
\^She sends it up with a vigorous stroke and watches the flight tnus- 
ingly. It falls.^ Ah yes, a feathered cork may fall but a winged 
heart shall not stay in its quest ! [Ejiter Madame Wadsworth from 
left. Betty runs to meet her.'\ 

Madame W. — So I find you here my mischiefs ? Zebedee told 
me he saw you in the garden not an hour agone, playing at hide and 
seek and I sought you there behind each hedge. 

Betty. — Aye, and so we were. Mother, playing. 

Madame W. — Put by your playing, now, little daughter and 
get your primer, so that when this weary war is over and your 
father comes back to us again, you can read to him of the good little 
maid who sews neatly in the picture. [Betty goes to small table and 
looks over books.^ 

Anstice. — Have you heard from Miles again? 

Madame W. — No, not since two weeks, but in his last letter he 
said he hoped Betty was diligent about her cross stich and numbers. 
\^The ladies seat themselves upon bench,'\ Anstice, dear, there be few 
men like my Miles, so strong, so brave and yet so tender toward all 
weaker things. Surely, I am blessed above most women. Some 
day, your knight will come riding by, and I pray God, sweetheart, 
he will make you as happy as I have been ! 

Anstice [hesitating']. — Elizabeth, I think he has come ! 

Madame W., [leaning forward earnestly and taking her hand.\ 
Oh, my dear ! Tell me of it, I beg ! 

Anstice. — It is all so strange. I know not if it be love. You 
have been as a mother to me since our own dear mother died, and I 
have grown up here in these green meadows, like the birds, singing 
my little song of life like them ; like them, clothed and fed and 
joyous. 

Of late there has come into my heart, something that is more 
than joy, deeper than happiness. This is the most beautiful sum- 
mer I have ever known, and I say to myself, " It is because he is 
in the world, too! " Is that love, Elizabeth? [Betty has returned 
with her book, and after futile efforts to attract her m,other^s attention, 
pulling her dress.] 

Betty. — Shall I say my primer, mother ? 



An Incident of the Revolution. 



Madame W. — Yes, yes, dear ! Anstice, when I have heard 
this little baggage, my head and heart and all of me shall be yours. 
Now, Mistress, what does this genteel young woman, seated with 
her housewife? [Anstice walks over to the garden entrance and 
stands looking dreamily out. Her sister'' s eyes follow her from time 
to time. Betty leans against her mother'' s k7iee and reads slowly^ 

Betty. — This pretty seamstress, who can see 

And not admire her industry; 
As thus upright she sits to sew, 
Not stooping as some children do. 
I can sew too. Mother. Mistress Paston says, that while the gentle- 
men are fighting, we ladies must knit and weave for the poor 
soldiers. 

Madame W. — So must we, little patriot. First finish your 
sampler, and in due time shall your stockings of warm wool cover 
the feet of some soldier who fights now, perchance, for you and me. 
\Betty brings sampler from table.^ Ah, the work is well done. 
[Holds it 2cp to Anstice who leans over back of bench. ^ Now stitch the 
motto. Canst read the pattern ? 

Betty. This is my sampler. 

Here you see 
What care my mother 
Took of me. 
Betty Wadsworth, aged seven. 

Madame W. — Very good. Now take the stool, so ; find your 
needle in your etui*. [Arranges Betty who sews on sampler.~\ 
There! [Goes to Anstice they sit upon bench.'\ Anstice, I do rejoice 
in this news. Richard has always been as a brother to me and the 
blindest can see that he has loved you long. 

Anstice [fai7itly'\. — It is not Richard, you do not understand. 

Madame W. — Not Richard ? Surely you must be jesting. It 
must be he. Who else could it be ? Never have I seen you smile 
on any other man, and indeed, since these troublesome days have 
fallen upon us, there have been few visitors to steal your heart, scarce 
a spurred foot inside the gates of "The Meadows," and only the 
fortnightly visits of old Peter the peddler, to vary the dullness. 
[A pajise; then as a sudden thought comes to her] Anstice, when you 

• A small bag worn at the side. 



When th^ Land was Young. 



came home from " Wildwood," you spoke oft of a young ofiScer you 
met there, a Captain West. Can it be he ? 

Anstice \speaki7ig quickly]. — Yes. Oh, Elizabeth, if you knew 
him, you would be glad. Never saw I such a man — no — not Dick, 
or our own dear Miles. 

Madame W. — Little traitor! 

Anstice. — And how he loves his country! One night as we 
walked beneath the moon in the garden, he asked me what I should 
demand in a lover. When I said, " First, that he should love his 
Country," he said, " Mistress Carr, you see before you a man who 
loves his Country more than Life or Love itself." Was not that 
wonderful ? Could Miles have spoken better ? 

Madame W. [troubled]. — 'Twas indeed well spoken — but 
whence came he, child ? If a soldier, why does he linger at " Wild- 
wood," where as every one knows, the sympathy with the Colonies is 
but half-hearted? A soldier's place is with his regiment. 

Anstice. — Mistress Bendall was a friend of his mother, long 
ago, in London. He was on sick leave, recovering from a grievous 
wound. 

Madame W. — Is he still at " Wildwood? " 

Anstice. — Not now. He is with the army. The war must 
be over soon, and when peace comes, he will come too, and see you 
and Miles — and me! Don't look so troubled, you will love him 
dearly, I am sure! 

Madame W. — 'Twas a thought that came to me just then that 
troubled me. Anstice, there is a question I wish to ask you, though 
the answer I know before I ask. 

Anstice. — What is it ? 

Madame W. — You have never, for any reason, tried to open 
the gilded cabinet in my dressing room ? 

Anstice. — Never! Why do you ask ? 

Madame W. — It is foolish of me to fancy it tampered with, 
but it is so constantly on my mind, that I have become weakly 
nervous over it. 

Anstice. — Is it the cabinet where you keep your jewels? 
What is in it ? 

Madame W. — You asked me, a moment ago, when I last heard 
from Miles. The latest despatch came to me secretly, from the 
hand of Tiberius who has been Miles' body servant, as you know, 



An Incident of the Revolution. 



since they both could walk. Two weeks ago, when all the house 
was abed, I heard a knocking at my chamber window, so gentle that 
it seemed at first but the tapping of the boughs in the evening 
breeze. I drew aside the curtain, and saw Tiberius, bespattered 
With mud and in a state which bespoke hard riding. 

Anstice. — That must have been the night I was wakened by 
the sound of a horse's neighing. I remember thinking it was Mus- 
tapaa's whinny coming up the oak lane. Then I fell asleep. 

Madame W. — It was Mustapha. Miles had sent me a secret 
despitch enclosing a sealed packet. The packet I was to guard as 
I woild his honor. 

ANSTICE. — Spoke he of the contents ? 

Madame W. — It contained important surveys of the fortifica- 
tions along our Virginia coast. The British, knowing that Miles' 
little :ompany carried them, were trying to entrap his men and it 
was recessary to place them in safety. It is to be delivered only on 
his signed and sealed order. 

Anstice. — Know you aught else? [E7iter, unobserved, Mary 
Pastoti, right. ~\ 

Madame W. — Nought, save that the woman whom her hus- 
band t'usts so fully shall never be found wanting. [^Sees Mary P.; 
starts tervous/y.] Ah, Mary, child, do you wish aught of me ? 

Mary [curtsying]. — The message was for Betty, Madame. 

A(adame W. — Pray, Mistress Betty, what mighty matters be 
thise, that a special envoy is sent you ? [Betty lays down her samp- 
lei and runs to her mother?^ 

Mary. — She bade me tell her when the caraways were done, 
aid I saw Manda but now take them from the oven, quite brown 
aid of a most delectable fragrance. 

Betty. — Oh, mother, may I go? 

Madame W. — Go, little sweet-tooth ! [Exeunt Mary and Betty, 
afer curtsying.] 

Anstice [looking after them]. — Elizabeth, I detest that girl! 

Madame W. — For shame to speak so of one who is alone and 
fr^ndless. 

Anstice. — I can not help it, I distrust her. Why is she here? 

Madame W. — You know that for years she has lived at "Wild- 
wod," dependent on the not too generous bounty of Mistress Ben- 
dtl, whose distant relative she is. Ten days ago, she came to me 



When the Land ivas Young. 



and begged me to let her abide here, as Hfe at " Wildwood " had 
become unbearable. 

Anstice. — And of course you let her come! After Mistress 
Bendall's overbearing ways, your gentle sway must be Paradise. 
Nevertheless, I like her not, and if aught goes amiss here, if cabi- 
nets be tampered with, 'tis Mary Paston will be to blame. 'Tis a 
deceitful minx! \Goes to spinning-wheel. Madame W. has risen 
and 710W approaches the larger table, Betty's work in her hand. She 
places work on table and faces Afistice.] 

Madame W. — Anstice, you are more than cruel. Your wild 
ways I know, are but the flights of a butterfly, intent on the sveets 
of young things, but this — this unworthy suspicion — is not beftting 
a gentlewoman. 

Anstice [stubbornly]. — You will see. [Spins rapidly.] 

[Mistress Bendall, i7i gorgeous attire, has been haughtily ap- 
proaching over the lawn, unseen by the ladies.] 

Mistress B. — Hoity toity, is this the way "The Meacows" 
receives its guests ? Here I ride over in my new gilded charbt and 
find the gates shut in my face. One of my own footmen was com- 
pelled to descend and open for me. [The ladies rise and .urtsy. 
Mistress B. ignores them?\^ 

Anstice [a trifle sarcastically]. — Was he much injured i)y the 
exertion. Mistress Bendall ? 

Mistress B. — Hold your tongue. Miss! Elizabeth, the way 
you manage your household is a disgrace to any Englishwoman. 

Madame W. [zvith digyiity], — I am not an English womso, 
Mistress Bendall, nor do we seek either to imitate her ways or foUqw 
her guidance. As for Anstice, I pray you pardon her rudenes, 
which is but that of an unripe maid. j 

Mistress B. — Strangely ujitutored, I should say! j 

Madame W. — You spoke but now of a new chariot ; can it j)e 
that at this time, when the Country is suffering, and our soldirs 
are lacking both food and raiment, you have bought another coaa? 

Mistress B. [Jightly]. — I^a, child, am I to be deprived of ly 
little pleasures just because a handfull of rebels are causing Ips 
Majesty trouble for a few months? The French ports are still opn 
to us, thank Heaven, and I have a new chariot, a most gorgecis 
new chariot, gilt without, embellished with roses, roses, note, Eng- 
lish roses! 



An Incident of the Revolution. 9 

Anstice \hotly\ — An' you were a man, Mistress Bendall, you 
would be called a traitor ! 

Madame W. — Peace, Anstice! Mistress Bendall, I ask you 
to remember that this is a house whose undivided heart is with 
the Colonies, as is its Head. You were my mother's friend, else 
might our ways part. Oh, the waiting of these dreary days is too 
hard to allow of losing one neighbor through strife. {Pause, during 
which Anstice spins rapidly; Mistress B.fans?^ L^et me thank you 
for sending me Mary, she has been of great assistance to me. 

Mistress B. — And small loss to me. The minx had her eye 
fixed on that good looking John West. After he left, she did 
naught but weep like a yowling kitten. [Anstice starts.] 

Madame W. [aside], — Ah, Captain West! 

Mistress B. — Yes, yes, you are welcome to her. At " Wild- 
wood," I should offer you a cup of tea. In these days, when every- 
thing is "Revolution," forsooth, no one cares if a gentlewoman 
perishes of thirst on his very door- step! 

Madame W. {rising]. — Forgive me for my inhospitality. I 
can not offer you tea, for that, as you know, we drink not, but wine 
you shall have and Betty will be charmed to share her caraways 
with you. [Exezmt.] 

Anstice [rising from her wheel and walking excitedly up and 
down]. — Mary Paston, forsooth ! How dare she raise her eyes to him? 
Still, 'twere strange, had she not. A man like that must bring maids 
to his feet. Fie upon you, Anstice Carr! 'Tis not for the feaster to 
look with scorn on the beggar by the roadside. And what a feast 
is set before you ! Should you not rather let your cup of blessing 
overflow on the thirsty ones about you ? And yet — / trust her not, 
there all my reasoning ends. [After a pa2ise?\ I wonder what maids 
do who know not which of two gallants to choose ? [Dreamily 7\ A 
year ago I should have said there was no one like dear old Dick. 
Now this new splendor dazzles my eyes so, I scarce see aught else. 
As though there were any choice between all the world and John ! — 
John — never did I call him that, or plight him my troth, beg an' he 
would. Where get maids their learning ? Many a weary hour have 
I worked over my criss cross rows of a's and b's, and good Mistress 
Hall chid me oft while I learned my primer through, from " In 
Adam's fall we sinned all," to " Zacheus he did climb a tree," yet 
never was maid taught when to hft her eyes, or to let her lashes 



10 When the Land was Young. 

veil what she will not have seen for a while. Where do we learn to 
say "No," when we mean "Yes"? Poor Mary Paston has not 
learned her lesson, for surely a sad heart need not be dangled before 
unfriendly eyes, as who should say, "Sooth, good friends, see this 
poor little heart of mine, once whole, now riddled, where Cupid's 
arrows have burned their way. Look you, Lord Lover, and go 
your way! Ah, no, that never could I do. I would remember that 
there are true hearts left to bind up broken wings ; I would — Dick ! 
\Tur7is and sees Captain Everett, zvho i?i riding dress, enters, le/tJ\ 
What a rare suprise! {^Gives him both hands, one of which he kisses^ 
Pardon, sir, my curtsy. [^Sweeps a curtsy.^ 

Everett. — Anything at all, so you but let me rest my weary 
body on this bench, and my hungry eyes with a sight of you. 

Anstice. — Art hungry? Poor boy! Zebedee shall bring food. 
\^Turns from him laughiyigly, but he puts out a detaining hand^ 

Everett. — Nonsense, Anstice, put by your teasing, dear. I 
have ridden far on enlistment duty, and have come miles out of my 
way for a sight of you. 

Anstice. — 'Tis sweet to see you again, Dick. 

Everett. — 'Tis a year since I saw you. Such a year! May 
I never see its like again. 

Anstice. — It must be over soon. 

Everett. — No one can tell. We are holding our own, in both 
senses of the word. 'Tis our Country, made ours by the daring of 
our first settlers, by our fathers' lives of toil, and please God, no 
tyrant shall wrest it from us. We shall be free ! 

Anstice. — But the awful cost of it all! 

Everett. — Cost ? In your sheltered life here, you know noth- 
ing of what men are paying for their freedom. In the camp at 
Ticonderoga last winter, over four thousand men were unshod, 
marching through the snows, with no barracks, no hospitals to 
shelter them. Is it any wonder they desert? Though, thank 
God, most of the deserters are foreign born. The Commander 
knows the stuff to fight with. This new call for enlisted men says, 
"American born, as far as possible." — Enough of this. Let me 
enjoy my brief moment of Paradise. These gloomy words of mine 
have sent the sunshine from your face. Have you wanted me back, 
Anstice, half as much as I longed for you, I wonder ? 

Anstice. — Yes, yes, of course we have missed you and Miles, 



An Incident of the Revolution. 11 

and have followed you through every battle with our prayers. But 
tell me of General Washington. 

Everett [^laughing]. — There you go, femininity! "Tell me 
of General Washington;" 'tis the cry of all the dames. Well then, 
you know him, the same stately master of Mt. Vernon, grave and 
courteous as ever, under the most trying circumstances that ever 
man faced. He is as unyielding as a rock, serenely calm in the 
hour when defeat seems almost inevitable. His pride in his army 
of tatterdamalions is as great as though they were the model regi- 
ments of the great Frederick himself. 

Anstice. — The Country glories in his greatness ! 

Everett. — A great man, yes, but there have been other great 
men, and only one yo7i/ Tell me of your life here. Are the roses 
abloom in the garden ? Were the ripe straw-berries as red as when 
we picked them together, last year? [Leans over back of bene h^ 

Anstice [ill at ease]. — The roses are scattered now. I was at 
"Wild wood" when the berries ripened. [Rises and walks to left keep- 
ing her back to him^^ 

Everett \^following\. — Anstice, I did not think to ask you 
now. 'Twere selfish to throw upon you the added burden of my 
uncertain life; but when the war is over and I come back — if I come 
back — a free man in a free Country, will you be my wife ? 

Anstice [sinking into chair by wheel]. — Ah, ask me not! 

Everett. — As you will, dear, I am content to wait. I have 
always loved you since the days when we drowned your Bartholo- 
mew baby, trickt up with ribbons and knots, in the creek, and you 
fled to my arms in remorse at your fearsome deed. Some day you 
will come again, little maid, and I shall keep you then. 

Anstice [distressed]. — Count not upon it, I pray j-ou! 

Everett. — I shall count upon it. No love that is true and 
high is ever lost. But I grieve you ; take me to Elizabeth. I have, 
an' it be not crushed, a most marvelous leaf bag of mulberries, 
which I gathered on my way, for Mistress Bet to stain her pretty 
lips. [Anstice rises and they walk slowly across the stage.] Then I 
must to horse. 

Anstice [pausing]. — So soon ? 

Everett. — At once. I have another mission which 'twill hurt 
your tender heart to hear of. 

Anstice. — Truly, Dick, hearts would needs be of India rubber 



12 When the Land was Young. 

to keep in any shape, so often are they smitten. What is it, I pray? 

Everett. — The running down of a poor devil of a spy. Yes, 
let your eyes flash. 'Tis a disgraceful calling, perchance, but may- 
hap he loves his country. At any rate, my men have let him slip 
through their fingers more times than it is pleasant to think on. A 
sly fox, and clever at doubling. 

Anstice \idly\. — Where is he now, think you? 

Everett. — At Sparwark, a village some ten miles to the north 
of us. \^Exe7inty right, talkmg\ 

\Enter the Peddler, dressed in shabby long coat, covered with dust. 
An unkempt wig covers his head and a dusty three-cornered hat. He 
wears colored glasses which he removes. He shows every mark of 
exhaustioji. Sets down his tray of stjiffs on large table and sinks into 
chair ?\ 

Peddler {drawing sigh of relief \. — Egad, that was a run for it, 
my boy. The rebels were close upon your heels that time. Well, 
a man can die but once. Dulce et propria est mori pro patrial Dy- 
ing is not exactly what I intend to do, however. I am safe for the 
moment. Old Peter has given me a good recommendation. Prov- 
idence, my boy, has endowed you with an insight into human 
nature. I staked my all that that Peter was a King's man, and here 
I am, peddler from top to toe. [Takes out paper which he reads. \ 
Hmm — so I am his nephew, am I ? I wonder if there is a family 
resemblance ? It is not an easy pathway yet. The disguise is good, 
as far as that goes. I'll wager a crown Mary herself won't know 
me. \Enter, unperceived, right, Betty. Looks about for her book, 
not seei?ig Peddler. Seeing him, she approaches, touching his arm.] 

Betty. — Are you tired, Man? 

Peddler [starting]. — By His Majesty's crown, who is this? 

Betty. — I am Betty. 

Peddler. — Oh, to be sure you are. [Pause, then thoughtfully^ 
Well, Betty, would you like to play a new game, called " Secrets " ? 

Betty. — Yes, indeed. 

Peddler. — Well, then, go softly as a mousie and bring Mary 
Paston here. Mind you, say naught to anyone else, and you shall 
have — let me see — you shall have some marchpane and comfits. 
There, now run! \Elxit Betty, right. Peddler takes up different 
articles in his tray.] 

Peddler. — This may not be as easy as it looks at first glance. 



An Incident of the Reoolutio?i. 13 

If I am found I shall ha/e to play the peddler, and how can a man 
who does not know a quilted petticoat from a snuflf-box, expect to 
fight with women on the field of feminine toggery ? Curse it all, I 
would rather face a hundred guns than this box of baubles. [Looks 
hopelessly over the contents of box. Holds 2ip tassel such as ladies 
wear on cloaks.] Now, what the Dickens is this? A dust broom ? 
No. Ah, I have it; a dangle, for most truly does it dangle! [Imi- 
tating an old ma?i, drawlingly]. Here, then, ladies, is a most sweet 
dangler, new come from London ; no, that will never do, no London 
for them. From Paris, then. [Holds up lace collar?^ And this; friend, 
I christen thee, " lappet." 'Tis a pretty name, an' faith, why should 
not I, a new Robinson Crusoe, cast upon this island of feminine 
stuffs, grasp any saving word ? 

[E?iter, right, Mary and Betty. Betty points out Peddler; Mary 
kisses her and sends her away, left. She approaches slowly at first, 
scrutinizing him in perplexity . Then coming forward hurriedly, she 
addresses him in ayi agitated voice. ^ 

Mary. — Captain West! 

Peddler \turning with a frown]. — Hush, not that name! Come 
here and appear to be looking over my ware while I speak with you. 
I am Joel, understand, nephew of old Peter, who comes here every 
fortnight. Peter is ill and sends me (the greater fool I). I wish 
no one to see me, if I can get away without, for I have little taste 
for peddling. Only the direst need brings me here. Now, where 
are the papers ? 

Mary [trembling]. — I have them not yet. 

Peddler. — Have them not? But you promised — you swore 
to get them ! Know you the hiding-place ? 

Mary — I saw Madame Wadsworth put them in a cabinet in 
her dressing-room. 

Peddler. — And the key? 

Mary. — I have one which will unlock it. [Passionately.] I 
would have had them by now, but as I was about to enter, I met 
someone. Know you whom I met ? 

Peddler. — Nay, I neither know nor care for aught save the 
papers. 

Mary. — Cruel! [Tauntingly.] Well then, it was Mistress 
Carr, Mistress Anstice Carr whom I met! You start. Aye, [weigh- 
ing each wordl Mistress Anstice to whom you made love in the 



14 When the Land was Young. 

moonlight at "Wild wood". Perchance you thought simple Mary 
Paston did not see your double game. 'Twas, " Mary, sweet, when 
this cruel war is over, we will away to England and you shall be 
mistress of Weston Hall." Scarce an hour later the same lips whis- 
pered 'neath the moon, " Mistress Carr, happy are the beams that 
are captive in your curls." 

Peddler \laughing scornfully^. — Spying, were you? 

Mary. — Why should I not follow your noble example? Ah, I 
know you like a well thumbed missal, John West ; Joel, nephew of 
Peter! 

Peddler [with appeay ance of ie7iderness\ — And love me, Mary? 

Mary [bitterly, after a viomenV s silence during which she strug- 
gles with her self \. — Aye, to my sorrow, else would I never lend my- 
self to this treachery against the only one who has ever been kind 
to me! 

Peddler. — Mary, I shall be kind to you. I pledge you my 
honor as a British ofl&cer, that if I get that packet, you shall be no 
more a poor dependant on the bounty of others, but a lady of one 
of the proudest names of England. \He takes her hand^ I swear it! 

Mary. — I know not which way to turn! If I thought — 

Peddler \impatie7itly\^-'X:'vai^ presses. Have you a plan? 

Mary. — If I go speedily, I can make my way to the room while 
the ladies are in the garden pavilion. 'Tis but a matter of a mo- 
ment. Be ready to leave the instant I return. {Croes toward rig ht^ 

Peddler. — Here ? 

Mary. — No ; await me in the pleached walk. [Exit.] 

Peddler [gathering up things]. — Now, where is the "pleached 
walk." north, south, east or west ? Ah, " west," a happy omen, per- 
chance, let tls try. [Exit left.] 

[Enter Betty, right, looks around.] 

Betty. — Master peddler, master peddler, please come back! 
You promised me some marchpane and comfits ; please come back, 
and give them me. [Exit left^ 

[Enter Anstice and Betty, left; Betty in tears.] 

Anstice. — So he promised you marchpane and comfits if you 
would bring Mary to him, and when you brought her he went away? 
Never mind, dear, we will find him, and you shall have your sweets. 
[^Exeunt left. Enter right, Mistress B. on Captain EveretV s arm. 
Madame IV. follows.] 



Ati Incident of the Revolution. 15 

Everett \laughing\. — Nay, Mistress Bendall, we war not with 
women. Drink King George's health, an' it please you, but never 
look to see England's flag float over this green land again. 

Madame W. \who has taken her knitting from her bag\ — Not 
while there is one brave man left to defend it, eh, Dick ? 

Everett. — Should the men fail, I think our women would take 
up the fight and train the soft hands of infancy to handle the musket. 

Mistress B. — Richard Everett, many a time have I shaken you 
when you were a lad, for picking my peaches, and faith, I would I 
could do it now! 

Everett. — At your service, madame, shall I present my coat 
collar ? 

Mistress B. — Foolish boy! You will make a brave husband 
for some maid. 

Everett. — I hope so, madame. 

Mistress B. — When I was a lass, and not so long ago, either 
Master Jackanapes, you would have been thought a sorry enough 
lover, for all your brave uniform. What beauteous coats the Maca- 
ronies wore! Bless my soul, it needs it, the young lord of Greymore 
was crazy daft over me, poor fool! Each night he would follow 
my aunt's coach home from the routs, and each night he wore 
another wig. Had it not been for his crossed eyes of a plum green, 
and his poor little thin legs, never would T have known him. One 
night it would be " Picquet" at My Eady Bath's, in a flowing red 
wig; the next a ball at her Grace of Blandish's in a curled golden 
one. Different hair, but always the same simpleton! 

Everett [rising]. — We try to disguise ourselves, but no one is 
deceived by it, I note. Farewell, ladies, I must see that my horse 
is ordered before I sup with you. I will attend you later. [Boias 
to ladies, who curtsy. He goes out, left, meeting Mary, who curtsies. 
At the entrance, he meets the ladies Lisle; he bows, they curtsy. Ev- 
erett speaks to them a minute, then exit. The ladies, follotved by their 
page, Pompey, who carries before hi77i a box wrapped in silver paper, 
advance slowly. Mary reaches Madame IV., curtsies.^ 

Mary. — Major Eisle's chariot has driven up with three young 
misses. 

Madame W. — And here they come! [Goes forward to greet 
them.] 

Mistress B. [scanning them through her glasses\ — These be 



16 When the Land was Young. 

ladies of distinction, my dear, though their father is in this foolish 
little war. What charming gowns. [ The Misses Lisle, standing in 
a line, curtsy at the same 7?ionie?it, as if by clock work.'\ 

Madame W. — This is a great pleasure. You must stay and 
dine with us. Mary, [to M. who wider cover of the meeting is about 
to slip away] take Mistress Anne's whisk*; Mistress Lois, lay a.side 
your cardinalf, I beg. When did you return from your aunt's? 

The Misses L- [in chorus\ — Last week. 

Lois. — Mama sends her compliments. 

Polly. — Grandmama sends her greetings and hopes that you 
are well. 

Anne. — Grand-aunt presents her most distinguished courtesies. 

Madame W. — Most sweet, I assure you. [The yoiing ladies 
seat themselves on the three chairs to the left of the beiich, Madame 
IV. and Mistress B. are in those to the right. Their positions are 
identical, hands in laps.^ 

Mistress B. [aside to Madame W]. — That is what I call good 
manners. [Aloud.] And how is your sister Sarah's infant? 

The Misses L. — Better, thank you kindly. 

Madame W. — What compound have you given him ? 

Lois. — DaflFy's Elixer. 

Anne. — Snail water, too, sister. 

Polly. — Grand-aunt advises snake root and saffron, steeped in 
rum and water. 

Mistress B. — Stuff and nonsense! The only thing to give an 
infant addicted to fits is Venice Treacle. The Countess of Duxbury 
always used it. 

Polly [timidly]. — Oh, I thought her children all died. 

Mistress B. — Of course they all died. You never heard of a 
child that lived forever, did you ? [All shake their heads."] 

Madame W. — What is Venice Treacle ? 

Mistress B. — Venice Treacle is a most aristocratic remedy, 
invented by Nero's physician! 

Anne. — Wasn't Nero a very bad man ? 

Mistress B. — Nero was a king, my dear, and that is enough 
for you to know. Well, Venice Treacle is made of vipers, twelve of 
'em, put into white wine alone, some opium, licorice, red roses, top 
of germander, spices from the Indies, and honey, triple the weight 

• A loose wrap having no hood, t A long hooded cape. 



An Incident of the Revolution. 17 

of the spices. A most excellent remedy, and \tnr?iing to Madame 
IV.'] if Betty Wadsworth had been brought up on Venice Treacle, 
she would have been another child! 

Madame W. — But Betty never had fits. 

Mistress B. — That does not prove that she is never going to 
have them. \^E7iter Anstice and Betty ; all rise and curtsy ; Betty 
rims to her mother^ 

Anstice. — I am charmed to see you. Betty and I have been 
searching for a peddler. 

Madame W. — Old Peter ? 

Anstice. — Oh, no; Old Peter would never have run away, 
Zebedee said the fellow told him he was Peter's nephew, on the 
rounds while Peter was ill. 

Mary \eagerly\ — Did — did you find him? 

Anstice. — No, we sent Zebedee to fetch him. When he comes 
we will buy all the sweets and gewgaws we want. 

Lois. — Oh, Anstice, we brought over a mademoiselle, just from 
Paris to show you the fashions. 

Polly.— Bring the box to me, Pompey. 

Anne. — No ; I am the eldest. 

lyOis. — Mistress Dunstan sent the mademoiselle to me, Anne ! 
{Takes the box from Pompey, opens it, disclosing a mannikiji dressed in 
the fashion of the day, pozvdered hair, patches, etc.] 

Mistress B. — How refreshing to see Fashion once more. Mary, 
child, [to M. ivho tries to slip azaay] come and feast your simple eyes 
on this sight. 'Tis newly arrived from that heaven of heavens, 
Paris! [Mary is forced to join the group. She takes doll in her 
ha7ids, looks at it and gives it to Betty. As she passes near large 
table, she drops from her side a pocket which has been hanging there. 
She does not perceive her loss, bid looks around from time to time, nerv- 
ously, as though i7i search of someo^ie^ 

Madame W. [examining mannikin\. — Whence did it come? 

Polly. — Lady Lenox sent it to her daughter in Philadelphia ; 
she gave it to her sister-in-law's aunt, who delivered it to her aunt, 
thence to Mistress Dunstan, who is in most sweet love with her 
brother, and she sent it to Lois. 

Anne. — Pray look at the style of her breast-knot. \Ladies ex- 
amine doll.] 



18 When the Land was Young. 

Anstice. — Are they still wearing penaches* so large ? 

Anne. — Her hair is done on dressing irons. \to Anstice?^ Oh, 
m)^ sweet, you really should wear your hair like the distinguished 
Mistress Chew wore hers at oui aunt's coffee drinking in Philadel- 
phia. Powdered, curled in small curls, and piled up very high in 
front, to resemble a sugar loaf, but flat behind, and neat. 

Lois. — And most adorable, embellished with ripe currants. 

Polly. — And Anstice, such a gown as the beautiful Mistress 
Leland wore at Lord Howe's last ball. Of course, we did not go; 
papa would have been so vexed. 

Mistress B. {sniffing i7i disdaht\. — We are advancing. Miss, 
when bread-and-butter-babies condescend to his Lordship! 

Madame W. — Tell us of the dress, pray. 

Polly. — It was of white satin, with the bottom of the petticoat 
embroidered in little brown hills, covered with all sorts of weeds. 
Every breadth had an old stump of a tree, that ran to the waist, 
worked in brown chenille, with flowers climbing over it.f Oh, it 
was most genteel ! 

Mistress B. — Perhaps ; but nothing to the leopard satin I 
once wore to His Majesty's ball at St. James. 

Lois. — Things are so dear now. I paid two guineas for a pair 
of gloves. 

Anne. — And I three for a yard of gauze for a head dress. 

Madame W. — We are trying to wear our old chinz gown now. 
Surely it ill behooves patriotic ladies to squander crowns on finery. 

Mistress B. — Especially when their husbands are fighting 
against one, eh, Elizabeth? \_Betty, wa?idering to one side, picks up 
the pocket which Mary has dropped ; takes it to A?istice, who is seated 
in chair nearest spi?ining-wheel ; the ladies ate engaged m C07iversa- 
tion ayid see ?iothi?ig of the following?\ 

Betty. — See, Auntie, Lucy Locket lost her pocket. 
Betty Wadsworth found it. 

[Anstice takes it idly ; a sealed packet drops out ; Betty joins her 
mother.^ 

Anstice [to herself]. — 'Tis Mary Paston's, I saw it but now at 
her side \as packet falls out]. Ah, a packet ! [slowly] a sealed 
packet ! I wonder — why 'tis surely the one of which Eli abeth 

" Bunches of feathers used as a head-dress. 

t From a description of a dress in Mrs. Dulaney's letters. 



Ail Incident of the Revolution. 19 

spoke ! [She slips it into her own pocket ; the ladies are chatting, 
Mary appearing tmeasy ; several times she fries to slip away, but is 
detaiyicd by Mistress Bendall to hold yarn, etc.'\ 

Anne. — Oh, here comes the peddler ! [All hurry back to meet 
him, except Mary and Anstice.] 

Betty. — I want my sweets ! 

Mistress B. — I am needing some orange butter. [Peddler 
comes forward reluctantly , as though seeking some way of escape ; 
Mary starts to her Jeet, feels wildly for her pocket ?\ 

Anstice [behind her]. — What is it, Mary ? 

Mary [/ai?itly]. — Nothing ; I am ill. 

Anstice [holding 02it bag]. — Sought you this? [Mary takes it 
eagerly, feels it i7i co7ister7iation ; Anstice looks at her scornfully , and 
joi7is the grojip around peddler, keeping in backgrou7id.] 

Anstice [to herself]. — 'Tis without doubt the spy Richard 
spoke of. Master Spy, there shall be two of us ! No longer shall 
you send dear old Dick on wild goose chases. [Duri7ig the co7iversa- 
tio7i ivhich follows, A7istice keeps her eye 07i Mary a7id the peddler ; 
Mary tries to slip away.] 

Anstice [coldly]. — Mary, I thought I heard you say somewhat 
of lacking a veil. Here be some of a decorous pattern. [Mary 
joins group?] 

Betty. — Hath he shoepacks for my baby, mother ? 

Peddi^er. — Here, mistress, sixpence the pair. [Hands out 
dolV s moccasins ; Betty pays hi7n.~\ 

Mistress B. — Hast aught of a callot ? 

Peddler. — Of fine quality, madame. [Fu7nbles among ware 07i 
large table, a7id shakes out a law7i apro7i.] 

Mistress B. — A callot ! that a callot? By the blue sky above 
us, my dears, the man knows not a callot from a grasshopper ! Peter 
must be in his second childhood to send you with his wares ! 

Anne [daintily looking over wares holds up a ^a/»].— Here, Mis- 
tress Bendall, is a goodly callot, with all sorts curli murlis. 

Mistress B. — So it is; how much ask you for it? 

Peddler. — Haifa crown. 

Mistress B. — Half a crown ? [ To Anstice?] The man is either 
no peddler or a fool. The thing would fetch double the price in 
any shop. 

lyOis. — Hast any none-a-prettys, Master Peddler? 



20 When tho. Land was Young. 

Peddler \puzzled~\. — Ah — h, what style wish you, mistress? 

Lois. — Anything, so it is tweet. 
\_Peddler relieved, brings out a package of candies^ Here, mistress. 

Polly. — What a stupid blunderer, forsooth ! 'Tis tapes my 
sister wishes. 

Madame W. — Hast a suitable pomander ? 

Peddler [mopping his brow]. — Look and see, madame, look 
and see ! 

AnsTice {stepping to his side\. — Hast aught of honor left, Mas- 
ter Peddler, or hast bartered the last crumb for sixpence ? 

Peddler [startled ] . — Anstice ! 

Anstice. — You! [recoils iri horror.^ 

Betty [^To Anstice\ — See, auntie, how the shoe-packs fit Belinda. 

Anstice [looking at doll with iinseeing eyes.\ — Yes, dear. \^Betty 
runs away. The ladies, showing their purchases, walk tozuard e7i- 
trance at left^ 

Madame W. — Anstice, we are going to sup in the garden, Dick 
awaits us there. 

Anstice [abse7itly'\. — Ah, yes, Dick. 

Lois. — Aren't you coming, Anstice ? 

Polly. — Captain Everett would scarce care what he ate, were 
you not there. 

Anstice. — I shall be there. 

Anne. — An' you tarry too long, we shall send him to fetch you. 

Anstice. — I shall come. [Ladies walk off to the garden, laugh- 
ing and chatting. Mary, 07i her way out makes a detour to reach the 
Peddler. Anstice stops her.] 

Anstice. — Mary, leave at once! Hasten to take the bread from 
the generous hand that has befriended you. 

Mary. — Hear me but a moment! 

Anstice. — Not a word! But for the Eternal Goodness that 
watches over us, you would have caused untold misery to my sister, 
and who knows what disaster to my country. 

Mary. — Where can I go, Anstice? 

Anstice. — Go how, or where you will, I care not, but go! I 
doubt if your chivalrous partner in this creditable ajffair afford you 
much assistance. [Mary looks appealingly at Peddler.] 

Peddler. — She has my word, madame. [Exit Mary, right. 
Anstice turns haughtily to Peddler.] 



A71 hicident of the Revolution. 21 

Anstice. — And so, Captain West, this is a British gentleman's 
idea of honor, to steal into the house of an unprotected lady and 
bribe her household to betray her ? 

Peddler. — I did not bribe the girl ; she did it willingly. 

Anstice. — A bribe is a bribe, whether it be of pounds or kisses ! 

Peddler. — A man's country is more than any woman ! 

Anstice. — Aye, and a woman's country more than any man ! 
{Thoughtfully?^ Shall I give you up, I wonder ! My cousin. Cap- 
tain Everett, has been seeking you for some time. I could tell him 
a pretty story of your intrigue and the packet that was so nearly 
in your possession. Mark me, had you succeeded in your scheme, 
had you for one moment had those papers in your hands, no fears 
for your fate, nothing could have prevented me from giving you 
over to your just deserts. You are but a poor conspirator, after all. 
When next you seek a tool, take a lady's advice, sir, and choose one 
that can play the game, and not a pale-spirited creature ! 

Peddler. — Anstice, you are beside yourself ! Have you for- 
gotten those nights at Wildwood, when the whole quivering heaven 
was alight with stars, when each pale night moth, fluttering among 
the roses, was a spirit messenger of love ? 

Anstice. — Aye, a ghost of dead loves ! 

Peddler. — In the silence of that perfumed twilight we walked 
so close that your hair brushed my cheek. Anstice, you loved me 
then. 

Anstice. — Never, neither then nor any time ! You were play- 
ing your game valiantly. Captain West. Are these the English 
rules ? Our American gentlemen play it more to my liking. 

Peddler \tauntingly\. — Your cousin. Captain Everett, per- 
chance ? 

Anstice. — Since you will have it so, yes ! 

Peddler. — Nevertheless, you did love me. You do me an 
injustice. 

Anstice. — Is that possible ? 

Peddler. — I am a British ofl&cer. My country is as dear to 
me as is theirs to any of your hair-brained gentlemen who measure 
swords with us. For a breathing space I forgot all save you ! 

Anstice. — And Mistress Mary Paston. 

Peddler. — Can a man help it if a maid— 

Anstice \steryily interrupting\ — I will not hear you! Listen 



22 Whe7i the Land was Young. 

to me. You shall leave this place in safety. Go to the kitchens and 
await me there. I will get an order from Captain Everett, insuring 
the way to the nearest British headquarters, for 2. peddler! [He tries 
to take her ha?id, she draivs it atuay. He turns to go.\ Stop. Un- 
derstand me clearly. I give you your freedom, not because I am a 
woman and shrink from the thought of your punishment ; nor be- 
cause one eight of my life was glad since you were there, but be- 
cause you have opened my eyes and taught me to see aright, and 
recognize a man ! \^Captain EveretV s voice is heard, left, calling. ~\ 

EvEIRETT. — Anstice, O Anstice! 

Anstice. — Go! \_Peddler packs up his things in silence, Anstice 
watching him. She poi7its to right entrance. He turns toward her.^ 

Peddler. — Anstice ! 

Anstice. — Go! [Exit Peddler.'] Yes, Dick, I am coming, 
straight to your arms, dear, the same sorrow-stricken little maid as 
of old. I am coming to you for comfort, and I shall find it. 

Everett \e71tcrij1g, left]. — Anstice! 

Anstice. — Yes, Dick, I am coming to you. [She meets himiji 
center of stage, placing her haiids i?i his that are held out to meet the?n.] 

Curtain. 



my I 1909 



-^ CAT. OIV. 



NOV 30 1909 



LIBRARY OF CONGRESS 



016 102 510 9 







■^ 



